


Rust

by ellerean



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Gen, Introspection, mido-chin cares more than he lets on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4010314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellerean/pseuds/ellerean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The links have long since corroded and fallen off the chain but, years later, Midorima can still feel the thread that binds the six of them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rust

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Penny](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/profile) for being beta-reader extraordinare, and also for listening to me ramble about this fic and KNB in general. (Life is hard when you have few fandom friends.)
> 
> And thank _you_ for checking out this little drabble-turned-fic by someone virtually unknown in this fandom.

It’s not as if he’s forgotten. It’s impossible _to_ forget—the slow unraveling of what had been a braided bond, the six who’d eyed each other with skepticism and awe from the moment they’d all been deemed worthy. Surpassing the other first years; surpassing even the veterans.

They’d all hated the phrase— _Generation of Miracles_ —but Midorima hadn’t minded it, really. It suggested that their skill was one of luck, a miracle bestowed upon them from the stars.

It’s been said that the progression of time is gradual, that one fails to notice at what point he ceases to enjoy the things he loves. Like it had been possible not to notice the fading smiles, or the diminished shouts of victory after a game. As if they could sit on a bench for the high school team and wonder, “What happened?” like they hadn’t all witnessed the dim, flickering light in their eyes.

He hadn’t forgotten, and perhaps that is worse.

He hears the words distantly: “Member change.” And Midorima is rising from the bench, ignoring the hopeless, sweating faces of his opponents. Shutoku hasn’t fallen behind, but the other team still has a glimmer of hope that they could catch up in the fourth quarter. Now, as he takes the stage, the opponent looks away like ignoring him means that hope hasn’t died. When the buzzer sounds there are two guys on him, first years like himself, who have to look up to meet his eye. Midorima considers trying for a half-court shot, but it’s not worth the effort. He barely toes the three-point line, the defense a mere annoyance as they scurry beneath him. They don’t even jump when he shoots, their feet still planted on the scuffed-up court when the ball sinks into the basket.

He looks to the stands like he could see individual faces, but they’re all a dark mass of shadows. Midorima adjusts his glasses before jogging back to mid-court.

* * *

 

“Midorimacchi, we’re _waiting_.”

He’d thought his refusal to participate had been apparent, but Kise was staring up at him, straddling the bench as he shook the outstretched cap. The sound of the shuffling bills inside reminded Midorima of dragging sneakers across the pavement—persistent and bothersome.

He turned toward his locker, hiding his face behind the open door. “That would be an unfair advantage.”

Aomine’s wide-mouthed laugh had long been transformed into a snort, and though Midorima’s vision was blocked he knew it was accompanied by an eye-roll. “You think the rest of us can’t shoot threes? Pay up.” Then, again, the shuffling of bills inside the fabric cap.

Perhaps it was poor sportsmanship that he never contributed to the pot, though a 12,000 yen jackpot would’ve been nice. When they got on court his teammates spoke of what they’d buy—most needed a new pair of basketball shoes, again—as they wove around the opposing team.

In the end Midorima _did_ obtain the most points to spite them, but Akashi would be the one with a new pair of sneakers in the next game.

“Could’ve been yours,” Akashi said in the locker room, carefully folding the bills before sliding them into his gym bag. Midorima could no longer tell when he was joking or not.

* * *

 

When Akashi passes with his team, they don’t outwardly acknowledge each other. Midorima gives them a glance before continuing on, huddled in the midst of Shutoku orange. He’s not hard to miss—Midorima is a head taller than most of his team—and it’s not that Akaski pretends not to notice; rather, it’s like he hasn’t seen him at all.

Shutoku shuffles into the stands for Seirin’s game, the formerly-mediocre team who’s now in the running for the Winter Cup. They’re halfway through the first quarter, leading 5–2. He still has trouble following Kuroko on the court. There is an occasional flash of blue in the shadows, and the _whoosh_ of an accelerated pass as the ball slices past the opponent. For a moment it disappears entirely until it’s in Kagami’s hand, and then he’s airborne, emitting a sound that is a cross between a grunt and a shout that Midorima finds unnecessary.

Kuroko materializes when the clock stops, wiping his mouth with the collar of his jersey as his teammates clap him on the shoulders.

* * *

 

“Midorima-kun.”

He jerked with a start, nearly falling backward over the low wall he’d been sitting on, accidentally squeezing the juice box in his fist. Orange juice shot up through the straw and dribbled down his chin, and he hastily swiped the back of his hand across his lips.

“Kuroko.”

He expected the boy to _say_ something, but he only stood before him, blinking, as if Midorima had been the one to soundlessly materialize. “Thank you for attending practice today,” he finally said.

Midorima blew into the straw, juice bubbles foaming as the carton _popped_ back to its traditional rectangular shape. “Why wouldn’t I?”

But he knew when Kuroko’s gaze faltered—how they’d begun to drop off, one fewer player during practice, one more corroded link falling off the chain.

He ignored the question, and Midorima was glad not to hear the answer. “Do you enjoy basketball, Midorima-kun?” Kuroko said instead.

It was Midorima’s turn to be unresponsive, slurping the remainder of his juice through the straw.

* * *

 

His attention isn’t wholly fixed on the game. The thread connecting them all tugs him every which way, taut but never snapping. Despite the swarm of spectators, he can see them—Aomine behind him, too proud to even sit, like standing near the door means he’s not really there. Murasakibara dead ahead, yawning; his mouth full of masticated chips. Kise, blinding amid Kaijo; Akashi, chin propped on a fist, mildly interested in the game.

His vision goes out of focus; his eyes watch the players’ swift movements but his mind reaches to the four points in the stands. He tells himself he can’t remember the last time they were all in the same room, but that’s a lie. The memory is both distant and fresh, a yesterday of years past.

* * *

 

They hadn’t sat near each other. The folding chairs were crammed together in neat rows, the aisles narrow. Midorima shifted and his knees bumped the chair in front of him, again. Its occupant threw a glare over her shoulder and scooted up to the edge of the seat.

When the Teiko basketball team was announced they rose at intervals around the auditorium, a seemingly calculated move, as if they were playing cat and mouse with a ball in play. The applause was as deafening as if they were on court, too loud for a graduation ceremony.

The student beside him looked up, Midorima’s frame casting a shadow over his widened eyes. The principal had started her speech, fragments of her praise sticking to his consciousness like flies in a web. The rest floated aimlessly over his head, the words heard so many times, hollow over the years.

_Nationals champion . . . bright . . . strongest team . . . miracles . . ._

_A passion for the sport that is unrivaled, a dedication . . ._

Like the first day they’d met. The competition for the strongest, the side-eyed glances at the others who were supposedly as strong as he. A passion unrivaled, a dedication, and then, three years later, nothing left to prove.

The applause started up again and the six waited for it to fade, for the last smattering of praise to trickle to silence. Midorima stared at the back of Akashi’s head, several rows ahead. He waited for the captain to turn and acknowledge his team— _his team_ —an acknowledgement of Teiko Middle School’s gratitude. But he stared straight ahead, through the principal and the blur of surrounding faces.

It wasn’t the silence of applause that was their signal to sit; it was Kuroko, the first of the six to sink back into his chair. It was Kise flopping back to his seat; it was Murasakibara, and it was Aomine. Midorima sat unceremoniously, kneeing the chair in front of him, again, its rear legs scraping the floor. It wasn’t until the five had lowered themselves to blend in that Akashi sat, never having turned around at all, still calculating their every move before he made his own.

* * *

 

There is no logical reason to have a basketball in his bedroom. Basketballs are stored in the garage, or haphazardly strewn over the driveway; he wouldn’t _shoot_ in his bedroom, but still the ball is cradled in his palms. Midorima lies on his back, hands poised over his face, the basketball obstructing his view of the bright, white ceiling. He tilts his wrists, then balances the ball on the tips of his taped fingers before it falls back into the cup of his hands.

He squints at the ball, tracing the grooved black ribs and slowly rotating it to follow the track. He allows the ball to drop, landing hard on his chest, but doesn’t permit it to roll to the floor. He hugs the ball like he did when he’d first encountered one, unsure how to even dribble, ignoring the rules of the court as he carried the ball to the basket. He doesn’t often hold it this long anymore—the ball is a fleeting presence, passing into his hands just long enough for him to aim and to lose it again.

He stares at it from beneath the frames of his glasses, its texture lost in a blur. The basketball has never been a lucky item, he realizes, and he lets it roll to the floor. The ball bounces once and he lies on his side, watching, as it drifts toward the center of the room. It flattens the newspaper and nudges a stained-glass vase that sits near it. Midorima can only watch in horror as the vase rocks back and forth, back and forth . . . and remains upright. His lungs empty in a whoosh of air, a sign from the stars that today’s lucky item has not fallen. That the basketball, never lucky, had protected it from toppling, despite it being the cause of its disruption.

He stares back and forth from the vase to the basketball, before his eyes fall to the newspaper opened to the day’s horoscopes. _Nobody knows the trouble you've seen, Cancer. Well, not exactly—but a self-pitying mood might be hard to shake . . ._

Midorima sits up and begins to unwrap his fingers, slowly, one at a time, the tape a spring of curl between his knees before it drops to the floor. He squeezes his hands into fists and then fans out his fingers, a minor exercise as the blood flows freely to the tips. The stained-glass vase he can cradle in the crook of his elbow; the basketball is under his arm, forcing him to turn sideways as he passes through the bedroom door.

 

_“Do you enjoy basketball, Midorima-kun?”_

 

Midorima lifts his face to the basket, squinting against the cloudless sky. He balances the ball on the tips of his fingers, extending it overhead, and waits. Feels the weight of the ball, calculates the distance to the basket. The outdoor court is smaller than he’s accustomed to; he stands mid-court, only slightly farther back than a regulation three-point line.

 

_“You think the rest of us can’t shoot threes?”_

 

With a flick of the wrist the ball soars, “nothing but net” they say, and then the ball is rolling back toward his feet. When he looks up, Kuroko has materialized on the opposite side of the fence, slurping a juice box from a straw. Midorima stares as he moves, watching each of his steps, from slipping through the door of the fence to his approach onto the asphalt. He tosses Kuroko the ball one-handed, who fumbles both juice box and ball. They land hard on the ground between his feet, and the ball rolls back toward the basket.

Midorima holds his stomach, trying to resist, but can’t contain the full-bodied laugh as he throws his head back, the bridge of his glasses tilting up and away from his nose. He’s vaguely aware of Kuroko’s grimace—he knows that his laugh is rusty with disuse—but then the ball is in the air. It bounces off the basket’s rim and Midorima welcomes a second wave of laughter, but has calmed down enough to catch the rebound. He hugs the ball with both arms, pressed hard against his chest, before dribbling to the opposite end of the child-sized court.

**Author's Note:**

> ([Here](http://soanvalcke.tumblr.com/post/119895471758) on tumblr.)


End file.
